Former Days
by EclecticRegard
Summary: Drabble collection involving brotherly moments between teen!Mycroft and child!Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Former Days

Fandom: BBC's _Sherlock_

Characters: young!Mycroft, young!Sherlock

Rating: G/PG

Warnings: Brotherly cuteness and kids being kids. I'm also going along with the assumption that Mycroft is roughly 10 years older than Sherlock, as I'm not sure of the actual age difference.

Summary/Prompt: Three short drabbles involving teenage!Mycroft and child!Sherlock, for my dearest friend **surrenderdammit**.

_'Nightmare'_

Sherlock Holmes had never been classified as a 'normal' child. He enjoyed things far too strange for that of a child or, often, an adult for that matter. He enjoyed science, reason, logic and deduction. From an early age, he could usually be found overanalyzing things: why Mummy had a specific emotional reaction to something he did or said or why the neighbor's dog seemed to dislike children, for example. Trivial, childish things, yes. But Sherlock still wanted to know.

Sherlock had spent a majority of his youth around his older brother Mycroft. The elder Holmes boy was always so irritatingly calm and collected. He seemed to know everything the younger one didn't and found great pleasure in refusing to teach him how to do certain things (like picking a door lock). Despite the countless number of times Sherlock got annoyed with him, often accompanied by his refusing to speak to the older boy, he still found something insanely comforting about the older brother who was forever nearby whenever he needed him. He had indeed been strange, but that didn't mean he never had the occasional bout of 'normalcy' in his childhood.

Seventeen year-old Mycroft was lounging on the luxurious bed in his tastefully decorated bedroom late one night. A copy of an old book lay open in his lap, gray eyes scanning over its text by the light of a nearby lamp. The large house was quiet, as it tended to be at such an hour. The staff had long-since gone home and he'd put Sherlock to bed himself; Mummy was away on business.

The teenager had been so engrossed in his book that he didn't notice the door open.

A small set of fingers curled around the edge of the door, slowly pushing the large thing open just far enough to allow a tiny body inside. The boy, no older than seven, stood in his favorite set of pajamas ("Not true, Mycroft. They're only clothes." he'd insisted earlier that night), eyeing the elder boy uncertainly. His brown curls were more of a mess than usual, nearly covering pale orbs that held tears he refused to let fall.

He gave a slight scowl when his brother didn't acknowledge him. Mycroft noticed _everything_. He lifted a tiny fist to rap three times on the door. Mycroft looked up from his read, brow quirked.

"Sherlock, it's late." he stated in his usual even tone. The boy didn't respond other than to bite his lower lip. The tears grew thicker, threatening to streak down his pale face. Mycroft set his book aside, beckoning his younger brother over.

When he finally reached the side of the bed, the older Holmes leaned over and lifted him with relative ease. He settled back against the headboard, bringing the child to sit in his lap. Mycroft pulled him flush against his front, petting the thicket of hair.

"Did you have a bad dream?" His voice was still even, but much softer this time around.

Sherlock nodded once, not trusting himself to speak without sobbing. He hated crying; it made such a mess of faces.

"Would you like to talk about it?" A shake of the head. "Do you want to sleep in here tonight?" A quick nod, accompanied by the head tilting back to reveal a bright, hopeful gaze.

Mycroft pressed a kiss to the curls covering Sherlock's forehead, "Go to sleep, little brother. All will seem right in the morning."

The youth snuggled as close as he could to his brother, giving a soft sigh. Why was it that Mycroft always seemed to know just what would make the tears go away?

_'Giggle'_

Mycroft was aware that he often tried his little brother's patience, not that the boy had any to speak of in the first place. Being the keen observer that he was, he knew just what buttons of Sherlock's to push to get specific responses. Occasionally, he would press the buttons that made Sherlock pout and try to ignore him.

The five year-old was slumped in a large armchair in the family room. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest and his face was contorted into a half-glare, half-pout. With Mycroft's eager support, Mummy had recently enrolled him in an after-school program in hopes of broadening his social skills. Needless to say, Sherlock was less than thrilled.

What need did he have for other children his own age? They were all stupid and dull, anyways, and they never liked him because he asked too many demanding questions regarding their games of make-believe. It wasn't _his _fault he couldn't see the point in playing house.

Sherlock had been perfectly happy coming straight home after school. There were plenty of things for him to do to entertain himself. Personally, he found the staff to be much more riveting to spend time with. They usually indulged him in his eccentricities and even cooed at his 'adorable little curls', not that he liked being cooed at, of course. But then Mycroft had gone and stuck his big stupid nose into Sherlock's business, and there wasn't a single thing the boy could do about it.

Mycroft came across his brother some time later, smiling slightly to himself. He knew that body language well.

The teenager strode over to the chair, kneeling beside it. He laid a hand on his brother's knee as he addressed him with a nickname Sherlock never much cared for, "'Lock, what's wrong?"

The boy huffed, pointedly turning his gaze far away from his older brother.

"You're still upset about the after-school program? It's only until summer. You'll be able to terrorize the staff again before you know it." he stated in a light, teasing tone. The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked ever so slightly. "Come on, Sherlock. Mummy can't stand to see your brooding about the house."

The teen's hands snuck up on the boy and, before he could even try to get away, they were tickling his stomach. Sherlock practically squeaked as he tried to fight the offending hands off. Mycroft only tickled him more. Finally, the child couldn't hold back and he screamed his laughter loud enough to echo through the hallways.

Mycroft soon stopped after that, ruffling Sherlock's hair. "Too bad, you laughed. No more sulking now."

Pale eyes shot a fiery glare at the older boy, "You never play fair, 'Croft."

_'Reflection'_

Sherlock never really cared about what he looked like. He wasn't obsessed with appearance, unlike Mummy and Mycroft. However, one thing about his physical exterior drove him crazy.

Every night before bed, he would stand at his bathroom sink and stare at his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on his mess of curls. Often, he wondered what he would look like if he had straighter hair, like Mycroft. Or if his hair only had a gentle curl, like Mummy's. It would no doubt be more manageable than the hair he was born with.

He supposed he wouldn't mind his hair if Mummy would just let him _cut_ it. He brought up the subject once, but Mummy quickly shot him down. It would be a crime to hide such a cute sight from the rest of the world, she'd said. Another time, he'd grabbed a pair of scissors, planning to cut it himself. Mycroft had stopped him just before he cut the first tuft of brown, and gave him an earful for his trouble.

He complained, loudly, to no one in particular, even going as far as to point out in detail why shorter hair would be better for him. Nobody ever gave it a second thought, though.

Years later, when Sherlock was an adult and living on his own, he decided it was time to get a haircut. This time, he frowned deeply at his reflection in the mirror, supposing he finally understood his family's reasoning.

He looked presentable, certainly. But he just wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _**Reflecting**__ and I have decided to make this a drabbles collection, which we will both be contributing to. At the beginning of each drabble, I will state the author, title and a brief summary of the following drabble._

_Author_: **reflecting**

_Title_: Brothers and Birthdays

_Summary_**:** On his 7th Birthday, not all goes as planned...

The door slammed with a satisfying BANG that echoed down the sometimes scary, sometimes fascinating, hallways of the house he still could get lost in if he didn't pay attention. He quickly snapped the lock closed and leaned heavily against the door, sliding down to the floor while biting his tongue to keep from releasing the annoyingly painful sob he knew was lodged in his throat.

It was so stupid, _stupid, stupid_, and he would not give in!

The soft sound of even, precise and disgustingly_ calm_ footsteps registered just as a whimper went past his lips. The steps quickened by a fraction, until they stopped just outside the door. Sherlock held his breath, waiting for the inventible as he curled his fists and hid his face in his knees, having brought them up to his chest in a vain attempt to curl into himself and disappear.

"Sherlock." He stiffened, another involuntary sob escaping at the sound of his brother's voice. Stupid, stupid_, stupid_. "Open the door, Sherlock." He hadn't even tried the door handle, but Sherlock knew he somehow anticipated it would be locked. And when was brother ever wrong?

He didn't reply though, and even if he'd wanted to, he wouldn't have dared try should the strained sobs be wrenched from his chest and force more tears down his cheeks.

There was the sound of a lock being picked, something he had begged brother to teach him, but which he so far had refused. _Not until you're older_. But he _was_ older now! And that was really the crux of the problem. It was his birthday, and that was what had started this mess in the first place.

Stupid_, stupid, stupid_.

The lock clicked and the door was gently opened, Sherlock small body following as he hadn't bothered sitting up straight; all of his weight still resting against the cool, hard wood. Gentle hands, bigger than his own, caught him under his arms and, in a burst of strength that always surprised him for the rather weak-looking limbs of his brother, Sherlock was swiftly lifted up and maneuvered to be cradled against a chest clad in annoyingly neat black silk.

He didn't even attempt to struggle as he sometimes would. He simply buried his face in his brother's neck and breathed in shakily. The arms around him tightened.

"What have I told you about running away from me, Sherlock?" his brother's voice chided close to his ear, slightly muffled by Sherlock's wild mess of curls which mummy refused to have cut until it was almost embarrassingly long.

Mummy…

A fresh sob racked his frame and he was made aware of movement as his brother entered the room, Sherlock's room, and headed for the bed. He sat down and rearranged him in his lap, burying a hand in Sherlock's curls and resting the other on his waist.

"You are upset because mummy can't be here for your birthday," his brother stated after a few moments of silence, where Sherlock thoroughly took advantage of his position and cuddled closer for the comfort and warmth of his older brother, a thing he felt he deserved today. He didn't reply, he didn't need to. The hand in his hair petted him softly.

"You know she would be here if she could, little brother. It's her work that has her delayed, and she couldn't get on the plane she had hoped for. She is just as sad as you are; she was crying on the phone, just like you, with little sobs when she called. If you hadn't run off, you could've heard it yourself."

He knew, of course he knew. _Stupid._ He had known even as he tore down the halls, leaving brother calling after him. He'd left mummy on the phone. Feeling his cheeks heat, he buried his face in his brother's neck once more.

"It's quite alright, Sherlock. Once you have calmed down, we shall freshen you up and get you dressed properly, and call up mummy so she can wish you a happy birthday again. Then, would you like to watch a film before cake and presents, or go outside?"

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from smiling, feeling a twitch in his cheeks. Of course, brother Mycroft always knew what to do. While Sherlock had frozen up and panicked at the sudden _hurt_ in his chest, reacting by trying to outrun it, brother was quite reasonable. Sometimes, it was really annoying, but today he was rather grateful for the plan laid out for him.

"I want to watch a film," he said, his first words since running up to his room. Leaning back to look up at his brother, Sherlock grinned. He got a raised brow in response.

"All right, then let's get you ready."

He was lifted up from his position in his brother's lap and set to the floor, and as Sherlock watched him get up he reached out for his hand to be led to the bathroom. It was a routine he thought himself too old for, but he secretly enjoyed being so fussed over at times like these, when his world had just gotten shaken and his head was still aching a bit.

"What would you like to dress up as this year then, little brother?" Mycroft absently asked as they stepped in through the adjuring doors. His lips twitched as he no doubt recalled previous years. Sherlock pouted.

"Do I have to?"

"Most definitely, it is tradition."

"But I'm _seven_ now! I'm too old for playing dress up! "

His brother smirked. "I promised mummy I'd take pictures."

Sherlock deflated instantly, cheeks reddening as he felt his pout grow more profound. "

"Fine. I want to be the Doctor."

So unfair! Stupid, _stupid _Mycroft.

-…-

_Author_: **reflecting**

_Title_: Bad Habits

_Summary_: Mycroft tries to help Sherlock get past a bad habit. The younger Holmes boy does not appreciate his efforts.

There was a resounding _SLAP_ echoing through the room, the sharp sound softened by rich carpets and robust furniture belonging more in a Victorian scene than the later 20th century. The effect when you walked into the evening room was actually rather like entering a bubble, Sherlock thought, the rush of sound bustling servants made suddenly cut off and muffled. He still fought the reaction to wince at the sound of flesh hitting flesh, not because it hurt in the least (it didn't, hadn't for the last fifteen times, much to his annoyance; _no one_ should have the right to be so frustratingly precise), but because of the physiological responses of the brain where it _expected_ pain. Bothersome, he thought, eyeing his hand with distaste before looking up to meet a set of steely grey eyes, calculating and sharp. Cold and scary, the servants whispered; Mycroft Holmes at age 21 made quite a different impression than he had a few years ago.

Perhaps Sherlock had become better at observing, and it had always been there, but his older brother was nonetheless a very imposing, intimidating _young man_, as mummy adored to call him (Sherlock wanted to be a young man too, but apparently he wasn't allowed yet; Mycroft said he'd always be mummy's _little boy_ but he didn't believe him). However, Sherlock observed those grey eyes and saw them as they had always been; soft around the edges, focused. They were just eyes, his brother's eyes, and there was nothing scary about his brother.

Well, unless he was cross, or determined to have his way when Sherlock put up a fight. Which was…perhaps rather more often now than before.

"Again, continue," his brother's voice demanded over the steady flow of his thoughts. Sherlock scowled, looking down at the papers in his right hand, and quickly found the place in the lines of mathematic problems he had been assigned to solve in his head and announce out loud. His free left hand was now resting at the table between them and he took a breath, focused, and dove into the symbols and logic, fleshing it out and mumbling under his breath. Numbers surrounded him, the room ceased to exist, and oh of course! Of course! This here, that must be the solution, if only he would-!

_SLAP._

His brother growled, and Sherlock waited a moment before looking up, the blunt of Mycroft's annoyance always cooling very quickly.

"Sherlock, what are we trying to achieve here?" brother asked, making him pout slightly at the calm sound of that voice indicating it was time for another lecture.

"We are trying to break a bad habit," he replied, parroting a conversation which had been held so many times. Mycroft nodded, pleased.

"What bad habit?"

"The one where I…" Here, he faltered, feeling his cheeks heat but knowing he could not rephrase this or he would be forced to do it all over from the start. "…where I suck on my finger when I'm thinking really hard on a problem."

Mycroft eyed him with another slow nod. "Indeed. Why are we doing this?"

Sighing, Sherlock fiddled with the papers in his hand. "Because I'm too old for it and it isn't proper behavior."

"And?" brother prompted, brow raised. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but he had already resigned himself to this ritual.

"_And_, because kids are and will bully me for it," he finished, uncomfortable with the intense scrutiny of his brother. The subject of bullying was a sore one between them; while Sherlock mostly did not mind, as long as it didn't amount to anything physical that inconvenienced him, brother Mycroft severely disapproved. At least his time at University now prevented him from directly confronting Sherlock's classmates, as he had done previously. One memorable time had been the incident at the park in the sandbox several years ago.

"Good, now, _again!_" Mycroft snapped, sitting back and getting ready to slap his hand should it move towards his mouth again. Sherlock grumbled, but refocused on the numbers on his papers. At least the problems were stimulating and captivating.

It continued for another hour, before Sherlock decided enough was enough. Clearly his brother was displeased by their lack of progress for the last three days (Sherlock tried not to feel as pleased, but rather guilty, as he did by the thought of Mycroft expecting him to learn so quickly now). He doubted brother would let it go on for this long if he wasn't truly impatient, which did not happen often. But Sherlock had more important things to do than indulge his older brother's protective and bossy streak. Oh, but it could be used to work against him, Sherlock thought, suppressing a smirk.

The next time brother slapped his hand, Sherlock let a strangled, surprised cry of pain slip past his lips. Mycroft froze, grey eyes widening in horror.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" he demanded, already standing up and rounding the table to reach for his little brother. Sherlock blushed, looking down and cradling his hand to his chest, trying to reason away his guilt. He had never tricked his brother in this way before. Mycroft seemed to take his gesture as something else though, hands gently stroking his back and reaching for his hand.

"I must have miscalculated; your hand's sensitivity must have increased over time. I am sorry, little brother. This is it for today. Are you all right?"

Sherlock nodded, not daring to look up or speak should he let anything slip. He heard his brother sigh, and a kiss was pressed gently on his curls, making Sherlock wince slightly in embarrassment.

"You may leave. I shall speak with the cook about supper. We're having your favorite tonight."

With that, Sherlock hastily left the room, guilt being slowly reasoned away by the experiments he had waiting for him in his room.

oOo

The rest of the evening flew past as Sherlock allowed himself to get completely captivated by his chemistry set and the way his mixtures reacted when exposed to oxygen, on wood and metal, and the little delightful explosions that would earn him sharp knocks of warning on his door from passing servants. He had put his brother from his mind and almost forgotten his lie when a familiar rhythm of knocks brought him back to the present.

"Come in!" he called, knowing it was his brother, most likely coming to fetch him for supper and have him cleaned. Frowning, he inspected his stained hands and sighed just as the door opened, looking up to meet his brother's steady gaze.

Something was…off. Mycroft only wore that blank face when dealing with mummy's idiot business-people or Sherlock's teachers. He frowned, confused, as his brother entered.

"Sherlock, "Mycroft said in _that voice_, the voice that always reminded Sherlock he had done something wrong, and which always prompted him to conclude exactly _what._ Mycroft would not make another move until he reached his conclusion, realization somehow making itself known in his features for his brother to pick up on, and then the game, as Mycroft said, was up.

Of course his brother would realize he had been deceived, given enough time to mull over it. And by the look of things, the incident had indeed not left his mind for the entire evening. Sherlock fought the urge to swallow nervously, choosing to look away instead.

"Sherlock, I spent the better part of the evening wondering how I could have allowed myself to go wrong. I have fretted, Sherlock. It was very unkind of you to deceive me in such a way," his brother spoke calmly, moving closer and settling himself opposite of Sherlock on the floor. Sherlock shifted guiltily. "Do you understand?"

"Ye—" he began, pausing to clear his throat, steadying his voice. "Yes, brother."

"What did you do wrong, Sherlock?" he pressed, leaning forward to peer at his face.

He grimaced, but replied after a moment of thought. "I… deceived you on an…an emotional level. I'm not allowed to do that, with you or mummy."

Mycroft nodded, leaning back again and allowing silence to settle between them.

"I will take away your chemistry set and any experiments you have running, and keep them for a week," he finally announced, making Sherlock wince, but he stayed silent knowing it was his punishment. "Now, you will clean yourself up while I pack this up, and then we will head down for supper."

At this, he perked up, to which Mycroft chuckled.

"Oh no, I had a nice talk with the chef, and tonight, it'll be broccoli and cheese soup for you, brother dear."

Guh! He _hated_ broccoli and cheese soup!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: _It was brought to my attention that I should probably mention that __**reflecting**__ (on here) is also __**surrenderdammit**__ (on dA). Anyways, we have another set of drabbles, which we are about to post, but I thought I should go ahead and put up a few that have been completed._

_Author:_ **reflecting**

_Title: _Boredom on Flight – The Case of the Missing Pearls

_Summary:_ Even at thirty-five thousand feet, there are cases to solve.

They were 1 hour and 32 minutes into their flight when he spotted the tell-tale signs of his little brother's infamous boredom settling in. Usually when this happened in his presence, Mycroft would either evacuate the premises, as it were, or point his little brother in the direction of his chemistry set. At approximately 35,000 feet high in the air, on a rather cramped passenger airline, this was for obvious reasons options that were not available for him. It was unfortunate mummy's _Cessna Citation X_ jet was in for repairs, and that the idea of her sons learning some of the common way of travelling had appealed to her so. If not, they would've been in a comfortably spaced cabin with a large seat each, and his little brother could've occupied himself elsewhere on the plane as Mycroft dozed through the trip.

Cramped in a small seat with his little brother by the window, Mycroft found himself rather trapped in the middle, with a rather round fellow in his mid-forties to his right (the ring on his left hand indicated a long marriage of mediocre interest for its abused and unpolished state, the scratch long healed and scarred on his neck likely came from a pet cat, and his clothes were of reasonable quality indicating he belonged in the upper middleclass with a job most likely in business, and the laptop he'd stowed away with his luggage on the rack above most likely meant this was indeed a business trip. The fading of a tan probably meant he was returning from one as there was little sun back home this time of year and the man was most likely, by the destination of the plane, American). Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his little brother vibrate in restless energy in his seat beside him and he could almost hear the noise of his thoughts; loud as they were in a world not quite ready to deal with a mind like Sherlock Holmes', and a Sherlock not quite ready to deal with the world. Not on his own, in any case.

"Sherlock," he called softly, out of respect for the older man dozing to his right and out of consideration of how easily his brother startles when in such a state. It took him a second try to get his attention, and the younger boy looked up at him with a pout and a frown he recognized well. Suppressing a smile, Mycroft shifted to make himself more comfortable and set to the task of engaging his brother's mind for the duration of the flight.

"The countess' pearl necklace has been stolen," he begins; pleased to see Sherlock's features lighten as realization sets in. The bright eyes of his brother's lose their previous haze of a dark mood and settles focused on him as he speaks. "The maid claims she heard someone was up and walking at 00.20 on the top floor, and that she went to investigate but had found nothing but an open window. She then proceeded to wake her master and mistress, whose bedroom door was unlocked as opposed to its usual state.

The countess would not wake, of course, for she has been under medication for some time and has been taking sleeping pills to aid in her rest. Her husband was a heavy sleeper, and had heard nothing of the slight commotion. However, upon further inspection, they found that the expensive wedding gift of fine pearls had been removed from its safekeeping.

How do you wish to proceed, Sherlock?"

He watched his brother bite his lip in thought, and reached out to place a hand on his as he made to move it towards his mouth, sending a stern look his way. He'd break that nasty habit of sucking his finger one of these days.

"I would like to investigate the window, and the corridor, followed by the bedroom," he stated after a moment of thought. Mycroft nodded, inclining him to continue. "If I inspect the wall outside the window, what will I find?"

"There are only three floors, and a pipe from for the gutter runs along the wall by the window. There is also a considerable amount of ivy."

Humming, Sherlock looked out the small window of the plane. "Then there is a possibility the thief entered and escaped this way."

Mycroft kept silent, only titling his head in agreement. His brother had yet to take into account the strength of the pipe, and if there were any damage to the ivy indicating anyone had indeed climbed along the wall to reach the window. The question of how anyone could've opened the window from outside had yet to be raised, either. If it were, he'd tell him the window had been firmly shut the day before as the maid had cleaned it herself: an important piece of information.

"The windowsill, will there be any traces of footprints, chipped paint or a snag of fabric?" his brother asked instead. Mycroft smiled. "There are several chips of paint missing, but no footprints or fabric."

"I wouldn't be able to tell if the damage on the color was new or old," Sherlock admitted with a frown, glancing up at his brother sharply. "You will teach me this, yes?"

"Of course." He would teach him everything, given time. Satisfied, Sherlock returned to his case.

"The corridor's floor, is it covered with a carpet? Will there be any indents of shoes, or any dirt left from outside?"

"Plenty," he admitted. "The police arrived before you did, and have already searched the area and left their prints and the dirt of their shoes behind."

Sherlock scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Idiots. Then I will go to the bedroom!"

It continued in this vein for the rest of the flight, much to their older American seat-mate's bemusement ("Are you two always like this? It's pretty impressive, son!"), though of course not continuously. Considerable long moments of Sherlock mulling over the facts and turning them over, trying to make them fit, allowed Mycroft some well-needed sleep. It was rather taxing caring for his little brother, especially with mummy gone for any longer periods of time. Luckily, mummy's work had taken her to the States in time for her sons' summer vacations, with only a few days out of sync. They had been allowed to join her, although she would be busy with work most of the time, as far as Sherlock was concerned, it was enough to be in the same city.

Personally, Mycroft did not particularly enjoy the prospect of missing out a whole two weeks at the University's laboratories and library for the sake of a too hot climate with the loud and extreme American culture. However, it would be nice to have conversations with Sherlock that didn't revolve around mummy and the unfairness of treating him like a little kid (which he was; only 12 years old. He shuddered to think of how close he was to being a teenager, having to deal with wild hormones as well as wild ideas from his little brother).

In the end, Sherlock solved the case as they were seated in the limousine sent to the airport to pick them up (apparently this was where the experience of travelling as 'commoners' ended). He had noted the stain of dirt under the husband's nails after asking what he would find if he inspected them, and had connected it to the dirt belonging to a flowerpot located in the corridor by the window, which had been moved. Dug down and hidden were the pearls, courtesy to the husband. He had gotten up after he thought the whole household had fallen asleep, having noted his wife had taken the sleeping pill that night.

He removed the pears from the box in his wife's vanity and hurried out to the corridor, opening the window to make it seem this was where the thief had entered. This had been when he had heard the maid move about, and so he had hid the pearls in haste in the flowerpot, almost knocking it over but saving it and placing it slightly off from its original position as the marks on the carpet would tell. He'd then hurried back to bed, where the maid found him.

Sherlock was, by the look of him, confused.

"Why would he steal his wife's pearls, if he bought them for her?" he asked, sounding put-off and pouting in response to his own confusion. Mycroft smiled.

"The human being is a most fascinating thing; emotions drive us to do a lot of things that by logic would be insane. The man was attempting insurance fraud."

His little brother oh'd in understanding, grinning as he allowed the triumph settle over him. "I solved it then!"

Ruffling his unruly locks with great affection, Mycroft returned the grin. "Indeed you did. Good work little brother."

-…-

_Author:_ **reflecting**

_Title: _Breakfast

_Summary: _In which Sherlock finds a way to shut his brother up.

Sherlock eyed the plate in front of him with suspicion, subtly sniffing the air in attempts to discern any aromas aside from that of a fried egg, some bacon and slightly burnt toast. He didn't trust his brother when it came to cooking; Mycroft had an incomprehensible fondness for food and so often took an experimental approach, convinced he could enhance any and all dishes given enough data.

(After a rather disastrous attempt, which took place before Sherlock's brain had developed sufficiently to remember such an incident, the family dog had been given the task of tasting anything new Mycroft had cooked up. Sherlock was loathe to admit he desperately wanted to remember, because Mycroft had forbidden any talk of that incident. He often did with any stories of his awkward moments, which Sherlock was convinced he had a lot of, if only to make his own moments seem less-daunting in the face of his elder brother's seemingly perfect self).

"-and although there is many things your teachers have been spectacularly wrong about in past and present, those health lectures over the years have been very much correct in emphasizing the value of a healthy, varied and regular diet. Breakfast is as important as supper, Sherlock, and I have promised Mummy to see to your eating habits while she is away this week. Even if this entails shoving it down your throat, you can rest assured—"

It had been going on for a while, as Mycroft rants tended to do when he was in the right mood. Usually, he was a man of few words, as it were, and left the long vocal monologues to Sherlock. But certain topics got him going, and without anyone interrupting, he was sure to keep going. Sherlock poked the fried egg, the yolk wobbling slightly, and titled his head. The familiar voice of his brother was a steady white noise as he contemplated his physics homework that had been interrupted by Mycroft dragging him down into the kitchen (where, after an incident he did remember, Mycroft had taken him to eat when Mummy was away and the dining hall was so big and empty it had brought him to tears. Back then, Mycroft's embraces and comforting presence had been met with a warm welcome. Though, as he grew, Sherlock found himself reluctant to acknowledge this). As he was calculating the approximate mass of his breakfast, Sherlock cut a piece of the egg with his fork and used a finger to help scoop it up.

Mycroft was still standing beside him, arms crossed and eyes momentarily closed as he frowned. No doubt a headache was coming on. Sherlock carefully took aim, bending the fork back with his fingers to create an improvised slingshot, and eyed the distance. With a grin, he adjusted the angle and released.

The piece of greasy egg missed its target by a few centimeters, colliding with a wet smack on his brother's left cheek instead of in his mouth. No matter, he mused, it had the intended effect.  
>Mycroft had finally fallen silent, snapping his eyes open and raising a brow, adapting the look which conveyed his annoyance, disappointment and suffering all in one (so many small cues for each emotion, cues Sherlock had learned to pick up and which now registered all at once).<p>

"Very mature, Sherlock, I can tell you are every one of those 15 years old."

Watching as he wiped his face, Sherlock smirked unashamed. "Your mouth kept going 'flap, flap, flap' so I deducted you must be awfully hungry, brother."

The look he received for his sass made him turn back to his food and start to actually eat, grimacing as he bit into a new piece of greasy egg, wondering if his brother was planning to slowly kill him by setting his body up for a heart attack in his ploy to fatten him up.

He wouldn't put it past him.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _art for some of the drabbles is linked on my profile_

-...-

_Author:_ **reflecting**/**surrenderdammit**

_Title:_ Sound of Silence

_Summary:_ Sherlock is fascinated with Daddy and his violin.

_Note:_ Inspired by 'Daddy Played the Banjo' by Steve Martin

Every time Daddy needed to relax, to get lost in his thoughts and find a calm place (as Mummy described it), he picked up his violin and hid away in the evening room. Mummy said it was like the afternoon naps Sherlock took; his mind being so loud and his body so restless his eyes would droop from exhaustion if he missed them. But Sherlock didn't quite understand, because while the naps filled him with energy again and provided excuses to allow Mummy and brother Mycroft to fuss over him like a little kid (he wasn't that little, he was four and a half now!), they didn't make the world any less noisy or his mind buzz any less. He went to sleep and woke the same; it wasn't a time he got lost in his thoughts. How could you get lost in them anyway? Sherlock had things quite ordered, even if his attention span sometimes left a bit to be desired, according to Mummy - whatever that meant. And besides, Daddy wasn't sleeping. How could he, if he was playing?

It made Sherlock endlessly curious, this whole relaxing business. Because Daddy never seemed stressed (the opposite of relaxed, brother had taught him, when Mummy couldn't remember where her reading-glasses were, when they clearly were perched on top of her head). Also, the violin was so cool. In fact, mostly anything Daddy did was really cool. But the violin was even more so, because it was something he did alone, something that had one of those weird unwritten rules preventing him from taking part of it (brother said the evening room was out of limits when Daddy was playing and Mummy had agreed. He didn't ask Daddy; it was probably a stupid question and he didn't want Daddy to think he was stupid).

Of course, this only meant he had to take part in it another way. So he snuck down from his room when brother was doing his homework and Mummy was out in the gardens or otherwise occupied. Daddy always left a crack of the door open; Mummy said it was because he wanted them to hear him play. Sherlock wondered then why they couldn't listen to it inside, but Mummy just smiled. However, it didn't prevent him from crouching down outside to peer through the crack, watching as Daddy slid the bow across tight strings, swaying slightly and allowing his hands to tremble through certain notes. It was captivating, as brother Mycroft described his study sessions with Mummy about ciphers and old things like pots with letters like pictures. And the music, Sherlock noticed, made him forget about time like playing spy games with Mycroft did.

He badly wanted to be able to play like that, too.

Alone in his rooms, after Mummy put him to bed and Daddy and brother had said good night, he would wait for a while before getting up again. He'd crouch down by his bed and retrieve the plank he'd attached strings to with nails, and a hanger. Standing on the bed, so he could quickly jump down and hide under the covers should he need to, Sherlock would place the small piece of stringed wood on his shoulder, as he'd seen Daddy do with the violin, and place his small fingers awkwardly on the strings. The hanger was his bow, and as he closed his eyes and drew the hanger across the strings, he imagined what sound might come from it and concentrated; where was that calm place? When would the world slow down and grow quiet?

It never did.

On his 5th birthday, however, Daddy took him into the evening room after all the presents and games and cake. He showed him his violin and smiled. "I'll teach you," he said, and to Sherlock it was the best birthday present he'd ever received. He didn't stop gloating to Mycroft about it for weeks, until he found out brother simply was not interested in the violin. He couldn't hear the music the way Sherlock did, he'd said, and Sherlock hadn't understood but he didn't really care. He was going to be the best violin player ever and he would play together with Daddy instead of napping. The world would finally go silent one day, and he would find out how to lose himself in his thoughts and find that calm place where he hadn't been able to follow Daddy before.

But he would, one day.

-…-

_Author:_ **EclecticRegard**/**ShizukaAme**

_Title:_ Hurry Home

_Summary:_ Sherlock anxiously awaits his father's return.

_Warning:_ Minor character death

Sherlock _hated_ whenever Daddy was called away on business. It was especially inconvenient now of all times; he'd only been playing the violin for three months! How was he supposed to improve with his instructor away? He was hardly appeased by his fifteen year-old brother's repeated comments that their father would "only be gone for seven days". That was such a long time, though nobody else seemed to share this sentiment.

Sherlock had always been restless whenever his father was away. The large house seemed even bigger and emptier than ever. It was so _boring_, despite everyone's attempts to keep the boy occupied. During such times, he wasn't in the mood for Mycroft's usually entertaining guessing games, where he would ask Sherlock a series of questions hinting at one specific thing and see how long it took him to guess the correct answer. He didn't want to sit in Mummy's lap and listen to her soothing voice read his favorite books. All he was keen on doing was playing his violin - despite Mycroft's constant requests that his brother cease for at least one day, insisting that nobody liked the constant headache of the screeching notes; that only made Sherlock practice _more_- and sulking in his room, occasionally glancing out the window for any sign of Daddy's car. It didn't seem to matter that he knew the exact date of Daddy's return; he was always hopeful that Daddy would come home early.

The day of Daddy's scheduled return found Sherlock in better spirits than he'd been in the entire week. He squirmed anxiously at the breakfast table, only managing a half-hearted glare at his brother when he berated him for his poor manners. Finding Mycroft annoying seemed utterly pointless on days like this one. He had too many things to look forward to: the way his father would swoop him up into his arms and give him a firm, comforting hug, as if to make up for all the nights he wasn't there to hug Sherlock good night, and how his father was so completely invested in listening to his youngest son talk about how he'd passed the time waiting for him. He brought presents, of course, it was inevitable, but Sherlock didn't care as much as Mummy and Mycroft seemed to; he was always just glad that he could physically see his father as he spoke to him, instead of having to endure the phone calls that could only last a few minutes - it apparently wasn't fair to not give his mother and brother time to speak with Daddy as well.

Hours passed and Sherlock grew increasingly restless. He had tried behaving, for Mummy's sake, by sitting down to read quietly. That didn't last very long; he quickly flipped through the pages before giving an impatient huff. He turned and leaned against the back of the couch, pale eyes scanning the driveway, waiting for the familiar black car to come into view. When Daddy still hadn't arrived by lunchtime, Sherlock's temper was getting the better of him.

Their mother had let him vent; she seemed almost as upset as he was, though it was more from worry than anything else. Her husband's flight had been scheduled to arrive midmorning, and he always called if he was going to be late.

A housekeeper walked in not long after they'd started eating, informing Mummy of an important phone call. She bid her sons to continue eating before disappearing to her and Daddy's bedroom. Mycroft waited until she was out of earshot before shooting his younger brother an irritated look. "Stop being such a brat, Sherlock. You're upsetting Mummy."

Sherlock huffed, shooting the glare he'd aimed at his food at his brother instead. "_Daddy_'s upset Mummy. He should be home now; he hasn't even called."

"Did you possibly think that it might be him on the phone?" Mycroft knew it wasn't the case, but he had to do something to calm the boy down.

"Don't be stupid," the boy shot him a condescending look, "they would have said it was him, instead of an 'important phone call'."

Mycroft sighed; it was getting harder and harder to resist hitting his brother upside the head. With age, Sherlock's haughty replies were becoming more frequent. He had hoped - rather futilely, he realized - that that eventual part of Sherlock wouldn't show itself until he had at least reached the age of ten.

Fortunately for both boys, lunch was over in no time. There was still no sign of Daddy, and Mummy's phone call seemed to be taking a very long time. The house workers were whispering amongst themselves, behind their hands and close to one another's ear to ensure neither Holmes boy would be able to make out what they were saying. The housekeeper who had informed Mummy of the phone call had stationed herself right outside the bedroom; she didn't appear to be eavesdropping, but rather simply waiting for something.

The brothers observed, curiosity and worry swirling in their stomachs. Sherlock clung to Mycroft's trousers, his cheek resting against his brother's hip as they peered down the hallway at the housekeeper. Mycroft's hand was resting on top of Sherlock's curly head of hair, as if he were trying to ward off any bad thoughts that threatened to whirl through the boy's mind.

Hours seemed to pass before there was a stirring from inside Mummy and Daddy's room. The housekeeper opened the door just far enough to speak briefly with the woman inside. She gave a sympathetic nod before shutting the door again. Sad eyes settled upon the brothers and, for a moment, she hesitated before starting down the hallway towards them, waving at them to meet her halfway.

Sherlock tried his hardest to bite back the nervous noise working its way up his throat, and only half-succeeded. Mycroft's hand moved to his brother's back as they slowly started down the hallway, trepidation creeping up their spines.

The housekeeper greeted them with a comforting hand on their shoulders. She gave Sherlock a sad smile before turning to Mycroft, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper, "Mycroft... give her some time."

The teenager could feel his emotions swell in his chest, and he fought so hard to fight them back for the time being. A quick glance at his brother told him that the boy was confused and obviously hadn't put everything together. Selfish as it felt, Mycroft wanted Mummy to handle that conversation. He didn't think he could talk much past the huge lump in his throat, anyways.

"Sherlock... let's go to my room, okay?" The older boy shifted so that he was able to lift Sherlock up into his arms, ripping a tiny cry of protest from his lips. Sherlock had never liked to be carried anywhere; it made him feel like a helpless infant. The look on Mycroft's face, however, quickly squashed any further objection.

It was a bit of a long walk down to Mycroft's room, which was placed at the end of the hallway, leaving Sherlock's room strategically placed in between his brother's and their parent's bedroom. It offered them all certainty that _somebody_ would be nearby, should the boy ever need them. The majority of the time, Sherlock went to Mycroft's room whenever he had a nightmare. There was something in there - a smell, a sight, the atmosphere - that comforted Sherlock above all else, even more so than snuggling safely in Mummy and Daddy's bed. Sherlock would definitely need the room's comfort soon; Mycroft hoped Mummy kept that in mind as well.

They settled at the top of the older boy's bed, leaning against plump, comfortable pillows that reminded Sherlock of Mummy. Sherlock placed himself in his brother's lap, his favorite seat in the entire room, and laid his head against Mycroft's chest. He enjoyed listening to the rhythm of a heartbeat; it was always so fascinating to imagine such a thing keeping an entire person alive. Mycroft's heartbeat was somehow different from Mummy and Daddy's, though. Perhaps it was simply because their hearts had to work to keep so much more alive than his skinny, somewhat short brother.

Mycroft leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling, trying to push away his own thoughts. He wished Mummy didn't have to be alone; he was certain the housekeeper had gone to comfort her after sending them away, but that just wasn't the same as her own sons. There was very little doubt in his mind as to what was going on, and Mummy deserved her sons' company.

The silence in the room seemed so incredibly _loud_. Mycroft could practically hear the gears in Sherlock's mind turning as he tried to piece everything together. It was doubtful the boy would guess correctly; he was still too young to be completely aware of the things that can surround receiving such a phone call. The teenager partially hoped that Sherlock would make the connection before Mummy came to see them. He wasn't sure if he could handle hearing it put into words, not just yet.

There was a soft knock at Mycroft's door before Mummy walked in. She hardly looked like herself at all. The mess of curls she usually pinned back out of her face now fell freely, accenting her kind, plump cheeks. Her dark, alert eyes were damp and reddened and puffy.

Sherlock immediately sat up straight. Mummy had been c_rying_. A frown marred his tiny features as he prompted her to tell him what was wrong, "Mummy...?"

She strode over to the bed, looking her boys over. Her so-very-brave Mycroft had a look of knowing, but there had been no tears yet. Her sweet young Sherlock had wracked his brain for an answer, she could tell, but had come up with nothing satisfactory. Mummy placed a firm kiss to each of their foreheads before sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Before Sherlock could scramble onto her lap, she put her hands on his small shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. "Sherlock, I need to tell you something, okay? Something very important." He nodded, his frown deepening. She took in a shaky breath as she let go of him in favor of cupping his pale cheek.

"Daddy's not coming home anymore, darling."

-…-

_Author: _**reflecting**/**surrenderdammit**

_Title:_ Unwanted Company

_Summary:_ Mummy invites a guest over for Christmas and Sherlock is not pleased.

_Warning:_ Bit of heavy language

Mycroft had missed Christmas last year. It had obviously been government business but Sherlock had yet to deduce where he'd been. The time elapsed between his unexpected trip abroad (he was almost completely certain he'd not been in Britain) had been too great for any reliable data to remain. Even then, Mycroft was the master of the art - which Sherlock would never admit, ever - and knew how to leave false trails and turn himself into a completely blank page of a book on which Sherlock could stare and stare but upon which no letters would appear no matter how hard he willed it. It was amazing and impressive, which just made it all the more annoying.

For example, ever since Sherlock had deduced all his presents under the tree at eight years old, Mycroft had taken to wrapping all of Sherlock's presents himself: present's shape hidden or not, always two layers of wrappings, sometimes the right one was underneath, sometimes on top, a store's wrapping, mummy's favorite wrapping, Auntie's certain wrapping-style. He could never tell. Not for sure. All but two presents (both from Mycroft) had been given this treatment last year and it was just another thing to annoy him.

This year, however, Mycroft and the special wrappings were present. Sherlock was torn between frustration and relief, as was often the case. Even more so, nowadays. At thirteen he was helpless to the storm of hormones that were released into his bloodstream, and it had an even more violent effect on his already rather unpredictable temper. As a result, he often tried to completely ignore those who provoked him the most, be it frustration or something more amiable, and Mycroft was a prime example.

This time, however, Sherlock was willing to take the risk of having his brother pick him apart and press what buttons he felt like, if only to escape the horror that was mummy's _boyfriend_; the word tasted vile in his mouth. He had met the man before: a business associate of mediocre intelligence and horribly plain features. It made Sherlock itch to dress the man down and bare his darkest secrets in the calluses on his hands and the marks on his shoes. Unfortunately, his life seemed to have been as bland as his brown hair streaked with grey, tasteful but practical rather than expensive clothing and unscented soaps. He was just so _dull_.

Hiding away in Mycroft's room as he dressed for dinner (he had just arrived, in a black, obviously government issued, car), Sherlock said as much, voice high and breaking at places - annoying - in his whining.

"Mummy's evil. She's _evil_and she's unjustly pushing this dimwit on me and it's so _unfair_."

Mycroft sighed, continuing to struggle with his tie. "Yes, we're the spawn of Satan."

"Stop being stupid, Mycroft! Why aren't you doing anything about this? Why won't you stop this? Don't you have anything on him?" came from his bed, where Sherlock had flopped face-down the moment he'd slammed the door shut and locked behind him, face turned to glare at Mycroft's reflection in the closet's mirror.

Mycroft silently asked for patience. Teenage Sherlock was worse than he'd hoped, but certainly not anything more than he'd expected.

"They've been dating for eight months, Sherlock," he began, as if he didn't know this already (he did, kind of, only he'd assumed it was six). "Robert—" (_Robert_; even the name was horribly_ normal_), "—is rather smitten, I'm afraid, and you know Mummy has been neglecting this part of her life. She's rather blissful for the attention, you shouldn't begrudge her that. Just be thankful he agreed to spend Christmas here rather than have us all carted off to his family in Scotland. Imagine_ten_ of him."

Put like that, Sherlock did indeed feel he was rather lucky, all things considered. At least here, there was Auntie and the triplets, and Granny and Grandpa (all Mummy's side). Uncle Alcott and cousin Sherrinford (Daddy's side) were absent this year, however. And Sherlock resumed fuming over Robert's presence; even though Uncle only came every other year, and then only for dinner and a quick exchange of presents, _this_ was the year they'd be absent. That wasn't the point, however. Sherlock wasn't sure what the point _was_, but that didn't matter. He had a right to be angry and so he was.

"Whatever," he sneered, turning away to hide his face in pillows that no longer smelled like Mycroft, as they used to. He hadn't lived there in years, after all, and only slept there as a guest nowadays. It didn't make sense to expect anything else, he reminded himself with a huff of annoyance.

A surprised yelp escaped him as the heavy weight of his brother startled him, settling down on his legs. "Mycroft!" he hissed, trying to kick him off and glaring over his shoulder. He didn't get much time to react beyond that, however, as he felt strong hands sneak immediately to the spots on his ribs that were the most ticklish (one day, he would master his body's response to tickling, and he had to some extent already; only Mycroft could manage now). With a roar of furious laughter, instinct kicked in and he struggled for any scarp of freedom, ready to utilize nails and teeth and elbows. It didn't last long though, only long enough to force embarrassing giggles and gasps and curses from him. Before he could launch for him, Mycroft was off of him and at a safe distance.

"If you say I can't _sulk_ anymore because I laughed _– under duress_- I will _fucking kill you!"_

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, straightening wrinkles out of his clothes. "Then stop behaving like a child. Let's go, they're waiting."

Sherlock pondered the ups-and-downs of throwing the chocolate pudding in Mycroft's face later tonight and, for now, settled with a pillow. Sadly, Mycroft ducked, and had probably read his sinister plans on his face and in his intent already. Well, he was always up for a challenge.


	5. Chapter 5

_Don't mind me, I just forgot we had an ongoing project..._

-...-

_Author:_ **eclecticregard**/**shizukaame**

_Title:_ Surprise

_Summary:_ In which Mycroft gains more ammo with which to tease his brother.

From the first day, Sherlock hated school. There were so many ridiculous rules to follow; not just school rules, social ones, which seemed that much worse to a boy who had never had any inkling of what was and wasn't socially acceptable. Mummy and Mycroft had tried to teach Sherlock to at least pretend for appearance's sake, but they had known from the beginning that it was an utterly pointless effort. The younger Holmes boy had never cared for things that didn't interest him, least of all how people thought he should behave. After a certain age he'd begun to understand more of why people reacted in specific ways to different situations, which he'd then carefully cataloged away for future reference. It was fun for him to make an experiment out of studying behaviors and even, later, testing them out to see if he could pull them off. He supposed it was one of those useful just-in-case things, like the smoke alarms hanging in random spots in the house. "You never know when they might come in handy," Mycroft had told a much younger Sherlock when he'd first taken notice of the devices. For a stupid, annoying git, Mycroft at least knew some valuable information.

School itself was tedious, full of boring people and equally boring facts about things Sherlock never cared to know for more than a few days at a time. The other children were loud and obnoxious, teasing him when they just couldn't grasp whatever it was he'd recently had his mind set on figuring out. On rare occasions he would find himself enjoying a classroom activity or noticing that the boy or girl sitting next to him wasn't quite as impossibly annoying as he'd originally assumed, which only served to irritate him further. These were things that he'd been set on hating until he graduated; he still had quite a bit to go before _that_would happen, but he'd had faith in himself that he could hate anything he set his mind to for as long as he very well pleased.

The phone calls and notes sent home were the worst, no matter if they were full of good news or somehow contained the words "He is a delight to have, but Sherlock needs to work on...", because Mycroft was the one who handled them whenever Mummy was away - which had been happening more at a slowly increasing rate as the years passed by. Mycroft seemed to take an even amount of pleasure in ruffling his brother's hair and giving him a few words of encouragement as he did in scolding him in that calm tone he knew drove the boy insane. '_He would,_' Sherlock had thought on several occasions while off sulking somewhere. Things were so much easier for Mycroft. He didn't have trouble pretending to care about others, he seemed to actually enjoy learning the useless facts teachers liked to drone on and on about, and, since he'd managed to grow so impossibly tall - like Daddy, and for that Sherlock hated him even more -, people had even less of a tendency to try teasing him than they had before. Sherlock hadn't been quite as lucky. He disliked having to feign interest (it was a lie, which he didn't mind telling, but there was no point to this kind of lie, so why bother?) and never spoke to anyone with the intention of being mean - it just happened to be construed as such.

Sherlock was eleven the first time it happened. From the start of the school year, there had been one girl in particular who he'd found to be just the right amount of entertaining and uncaring when it came to his unusual behavior. She would insist they sat together for lunch, which turned out to be less painful than he'd thought, and even listened to him whenever he got in a mood and rambled on about that which really only made sense to him. He let her help him when there were things in class he'd forgotten about - rather, tossed carelessly out of his mind - and found that the fact that she smiled a lot at him wasn't too terrible either. Then, of course, she'd had to go and _ruin_everything.

It was the last day before Christmas break and Mycroft had just come home from Uni a few days prior. Much to his brother's chagrin, he'd insisted on picking Sherlock up after school every day since he'd been home. It was bad enough to have to listen to the elder boy's cheerful mocking words about his 'new girlfriend' from the first day he'd seen Sherlock walking out of the school with a redheaded girl talking at him - he'd even made the horrid mistake of forgetting himself and gave her a small, half-smile before remembering Mycroft was watching. The last day, however, turned out to be much, much worse. Just before he could break away from the girl with a mutter of "Merry Christmas", she had stepped up to him and kissed him right on the mouth. A brief second later, she said her good-byes and ran off for her own ride, leaving Sherlock standing dumbfounded in the middle of the walkway. A minute later he composed himself and strode over to the waiting car, already glaring at Mycroft before he could even see the amused look on his face. He slid into the passenger seat, shut the door, and immediately turned his back to his brother.

"Shall Mummy and I expect a happy announcement over the holiday, then?" Mycroft inquired lightly as they drove off.

"Stuff it, Mycroft."

-...-

_Author: _**reflecting**/**surrenderdammit**_  
>Title: <em>Pesky Puberty, Bothering Brothers_  
>Summary:<em> How could the woes of puberty make Mycroft even _more_insufferable?

A loud sneeze echoed through the large, ancient attic, startling anyone who might be nearby. As it was, Sherlock Holmes was very much alone, buried deep in old boxes and dust as he grimaced in annoyance at the tickling sensation in his nose. Three sneezes later and he figured he finally had his bothersome body under control. Which of course, nowadays, meant very little, as the following four sneezes reminded him of.

Puberty was, all in all, a complete mess and an utter disgrace of evolution. That you weren't just allowed to wake up one day and de-tangle from your sheets like breaking free of a cocoon, fully developed and at optimal function, was deplorable. The process you were forced by nature to endure was instead something completely humiliating, mostly because it was utterly out of your mind's control which proved that there was, indeed, some things that were just simply out of your hands. This was what Mycroft had told him (somewhat edited), after having sent him to shower one day with a new deodorant pressed into his hands (increased hormones and pheromones: body odor). It only got worse from there: sullied sheets, growth pains, broken voice, flailing limbs, pimples and inappropriate, awkward reactions to dull human faces and bodies.

While he knew, logically, that his older brother must have gone through similar biological changes, it was hard to imagine, though Mycroft altered between being annoyingly helpful and disgustingly mocking. There were times, Sherlock admitted, that the elder Holmes sibling did not seem human at all. This had never bothered him up until now, because try as he might, he could not remember a time when his brother's voice had been anything but soothing or taunting. There were no sharp elbows, unpleasant smells, locked bedroom doors, or violent temper tantrums. This was worrying on several levels; had Sherlock's memory somehow been impaired? Did Mycroft lie about it being uncontrollable? _Could_ one control it, if one were a Holmes? If so, Sherlock had failed long ago, both with keeping a satisfying arsenal of memories where Mycroft embarrassed himself by stooping to _human_ levels, as well as figuring out the way to control himself and the changes so violently forced upon him. He was granted some kind of mercy however, with Mycroft permanently out of the house barring holidays and vacations (when he could afford them. Making himself indispensable while taking over the country would take up a lot of time). That meant fewer opportunities for his brother to collect even more embarrassing information on him, which was a constant, if undeniably losing, fight on Sherlock's part.

This week, however, Mycroft had taken a few days off of manipulating government officials of all standings and whatever else he did when he wasn't feeding on the blood of virgins ("I am not a vampire, Sherlock, and as such I cannot turn you into one as well."). This was badly timed with Sherlock's break from school over the summer, and so the brothers were holed up in their family home with an unusually fussy Mummy - Sherlock suspected the weight-gain, bruised eyes, clenched jaw due to frequent and persistent migraines, the sudden unexpected more-than-the-usual two-day vacation, among many other signs of Mycroft rapidly working himself sick. Mycroft was never really cruel towards him, but he could be vicious when provoked, and did Sherlock not just _love _being able to annoy his brother till he was gritting his teeth in frustration? Yesterday, however, he admitted he might have gone a bit too far (playing with fire again).

The following retaliation had driven Sherlock up to the dusty attic and its dank smell of old and forgotten things. There had been no _need _to lay bare all that had annoyed, scared, and confounded him since the textbook biology became a reality. Mycroft clearly knew it all anyway, but sometimes Sherlock liked to pretend he didn't, for whatever reason ("You are intimidated, brother-mine."). Fuming, he'd left Mycroft where he stood with his spine stiff, mouth grim and eyes cold in a pained glare (his brother's migraines weren't like the noise in his own head, the noise that never stopped and sometimes became too much and left him _so weak_. He didn't know what they were like, only that it made him snap much more easily, were a sign of _bad things_, and had worn permanent marks on his face over the years). After having stomped up the stairs intending to secure himself in his bedroom, he'd instead continued on up to the attic.

The family album dedicated to Mycroft must be _somewhere. _Surely Mummy wouldn't allow his brother to _truly_ get rid of it? Sherlock had tried to get rid of his own, the ridiculous leather-bound thing in red with "Sherlock Holmes" in golden Victorian script (and, somewhat morbidly, the date of his birth with room to add his eventual date of death), but with little success. The scolding he received after having tried to "drop" it in acid had put a stop to the more obvious ways of getting rid of it. It now had a "honorary position" (Mycroft's annoyingly cheerful words) in Mummy's glassed-in bookshelf in the living room ("Easy access for the one you might one day drag home. Embarrassing baby pictures is part of the ritual and definitely one of the privileges of being a mother."). To add salt to the injury, after the acid incident, Mycroft had gotten Mummy a Canon EOS RT (two months before its official release), to _ensure she would have sufficient material_ (bastard). The only good thing about this was that Mycroft had been subjected to as many "photoshoots" as himself during that period (it was still ongoing, he'd noted, when the flash had gone off seemingly non-stop the first day his brother had arrived).

Another series of violent sneezes disrupted Sherlock's stream of thoughts from where he sat rummaging through the third box most likely to contain stashed away photos. With an annoyed hiss, he dropped the old, mould-infested books back and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the offending mess around him. It was like this Mycroft found him, having snuck up during his sneeze attack no doubt. His hand on his shoulder made him jump slightly and gasp in surprise, ending with a coughing fit and an unpleasant taste of dust in his mouth.

"Fuck-!" he hissed, getting his arm caught in a firm grip in an attempt to elbow his brother in the ribs. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same," Mycroft replied, settling down beside him, calmly ignoring his glare, "but we both know the answer to _that_. Really Sherlock, there are more efficient ways of uncovering information."

"Yeah, well you'd know all about that wouldn't you, you manipulative sod," he muttered, shifting a bit further away. Silence followed, frustrated on Sherlock's part, more amused indulgence on his elder brother's. After a while Mycroft spoke, sounding as tired as he looked.

"You must realize that there is a time and place for provoking me. Have you not yet learned to tell the difference?" Which was Mycroft's way of telling him he wouldn't apologize, which Sherlock already knew, of course. His only answer was a huff of frustration, at himself or his brother he wasn't sure at this point. Mycroft continued, resting his hand on Sherlock's back. "I cannot promise to not end up like this again, brother-mine. My work-"

"-oh please! As if I care!" Sherlock snapped, looking away with a sneer. Mycroft simply sighed and let his hand drop, pushing himself up to a stand. They both knew why Sherlock couldn't help himself; Mycroft was the same, if more controlled. It was much easier to be angry than worried, after all.

"The attic was not a bad deduction. I confirm nothing, since it would not be anything in it for me at all, but if you ever find it, I promise to secure your album of childhood awkwardness in an equally safe place," his brother said after a moment, before making his way to the stairs. Sherlock watched him leave with narrowed eyes.

"It's not safe if I find it!" he called after him. Mycroft merely paused and sent him a smirk, eyes sharper than they'd been since he came home.

"Exactly; _**if**_."


End file.
